


i wish you felt me falling

by abovetheserpentine



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Recreational Drug Use, Somnophilia, Succubi & Incubi, Thriller, Unrequited Love, i literally cannot post any other tags for fear of spoiling, i was asked to tag which FAIR so pls avert your eyes if you don't want spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 06:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11178981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheserpentine/pseuds/abovetheserpentine
Summary: Harry’s in love with Louis. Louis isn’t in love with Harry. There’s nothingtowork out.





	i wish you felt me falling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lucythegoosey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucythegoosey/gifts).



> For possible story spoilers and an explanation of the mildly dubious consent tag, please go to end notes.
> 
> This is for the love of my natural born life, [Lucy](http://harryrainbows.tumblr.com). I knew I wanted to write a fic for her birthday, and I got loosely inspired by a Ziall one-shot I was reading at the time. This spiralled into something darker than I initially anticipated, but I hope some of the light-heartedness I wanted is still about.
> 
> Title came from the Snow Ghosts song _And The World Was Gone_. Enjoy!

“Harry?”

Harry frowns into his pillow, mind groggy with the late hour. It’s dark in his room, though he keeps his eyes closed in the hope that whoever is whispering at his door will let him sleep.

“ _Harry?_ ”

He groans, pushing his face further into the pillow before turning over slowly, right bicep resting on his chest. He keeps his eyes closed, optimistic that sleep will welcome him shortly once more.

“What?” he croaks out, voice thick with tiredness.

“Can I lie with you?” the voice asks, and it seems light, timid almost.

Harry frowns again, this time up at the ceiling as he blearily opens his eyes. “Louis?” He cranes his neck down, absently noting the empty space next to him as he gazes upon his best friend, silhouette in the doorway created by the hallway light. Harry squints against the glare. “Lou, what are you doing?”

Louis shuffles forward, his socked feet dragging across the wooden floorboards, his pyjama bottoms tucked into them and his t-shirt looking too big, like he borrowed one of Harry’s forever ago and forgot to return it. It’s not unlikely, so Harry lets the thought fly away, untethered and unimportant.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, offhand in that way that lets Harry know there’s something bothering him, something he probably won’t want to talk about until Harry gives him _the eyes._ It’s too late – or early, Harry guesses – to do that, though, so he just breathes out long and deep, rubbing a heavy hand over his face. He feels old and haggard. He needs to bloody well stop drinking until he’s stumbling through the front door – his body can’t handle it anymore, apparently. “Can I stay?”

Harry’s mind flashes back to the tattoo on his own arm, a question and a desperate plea. He’d flinch, but his body can’t seem to move much in the late hour.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough with sleep, ignoring the part of him that gets the feeling it’s a bad idea, “you can stay.”

He’s glad his female company for the night seems to have gone, disappeared and taken all her things with her. He’s also glad that there’s no wet spot he’ll have to lie in. Louis is not above ribbing him for actually sleeping with someone for the first time in ages, even if it would sit uncomfortably in Harry’s stomach, his face tight with anxiety.

Louis slides in next to him, his fingertips cold as they skate over Harry’s chest. Harry frowns, eyes closing again. Louis cuddles into him, and Harry has the idle thought of _That’s strange,_ before he’s going under again, lulled by the warmth of Louis’ exhales against his neck.

The next morning Louis is gone from his bed, and Harry has the wry thought that he’s finally hallucinating things now.

The drinking truly needs to stop.

Harry stumbles into the kitchen, stopping short at Louis dressed the same as when he was right up against Harry’s side, body warm and soothing.

“Hey,” he says, nodding his head at Harry with a small smile, private and just for them. Harry’s tired heart aches, but he pushes through and returns the gesture, walking forward until they’re side by side, Louis’ poor attempt at scrambled eggs looking rather pathetic.

“Morning,” Harry murmurs, and feels bold enough to put a hand on Louis’ waist, “Why don’t you let me?”

Louis rolls his eyes, huffing, and suddenly it’s like last night never happened, Louis shifting away easily enough like he does every time Harry shows that kind of affection – straddling the line between platonic and romantic.

“Sunday breakfast doesn’t always have to be _your_ thing,” Louis snarks, and Harry hides a smile in his hair, curls not long enough to brush his shoulders just yet. “I can cook, too, you know.”

“Sure you can, Lou,” Harry tells him, trying not to laugh, “Doesn’t mean it’s good, though.”

“Fuck off,” Louis scoffs, but he’s smiling, too, the weird tenderness completely gone. “Weren’t you meant to have a shift this morning?”

“Cancelled,” Harry frowns down at the half-cooked eggs, grabbing some chives to chop after a moment, “Diane said Holly wanted the extra hours. I didn’t mind.”

Louis hums in acknowledgement. He’s sat himself at the kitchen island, watching Harry cook.

“I know it’s pointless, but I do wish you’d put some clothes on when you’re preparing me a meal, Styles.” Harry laughs, shaking his head down at the chopping board.

“I’m not the one ogling my arse in these briefs, mate.” Harry retorts, just to hear the way Louis splutters and chokes and insults him right back.

 _This is normal,_ Harry thinks fondly, even if the thought of normal has him a little sad, Louis completely and utterly and only his friend. _As normal as can be._

The rest of the day goes by easily – they watch a film together, a healthy amount of space between them on the couch; Niall keeps texting Harry about some assignment they’ve got that’s due in a week, and Louis spends a solid hour complaining about how Zayn won’t shut up about Niall’s blue eyes or something. Liam’s off with Sophia, so they haven’t heard anything from him – but Harry gets an earful in class the next day.

“Alright,” Harry sighs, snapping his eyes open for about the hundredth time that lecture. Everything sounds like white noise, but Liam gushing about his girlfriend and meeting her parents seems worse than all of it combined. Harry loves him, but he’s too tired for this. “Sounds like it went well.”

There must be something in Harry’s tone that tips Liam off – or maybe it’s the fact Harry’s staring down at his desk in a stupor – but Liam cuts himself off and frowns, bushy eyebrows sending a pang of platonic love through Harry’s heart.

“S’alright,” Liam assures him jerkily after a moment, “You’ve already met Lou’s parents.”

“Liam,” Harry starts warningly, a little more awake now as his gut twists in on itself, “Stop.”

“I’m just saying!” Liam exclaims in a whisper as the bloke in front turns around to glare at them, “It’s going to happen.”

“ _It’s not going to happen,_ ” Harry says vehemently, blood turning hot suddenly, rushing through his veins like the thought alone makes his very DNA get ahead of itself, optimistic. “Louis and I are never going to happen, alright? If we haven’t now, we won’t ever.”

“Haz,” Liam starts, and Harry closes his eyes on the sadness in his tone, “Come on, don’t be like this. I’ve told you, it’ll work itself out.”

“Liam,” Harry returns, voice measured as he shifts to stare at Liam evenly, jaw clenched, “Louis and I are best mates. I’m–” He breathes through his nose loudly, blinking back the sting of unshed tears, “I’m alright with that if it’s what makes Lou happy. Leave it, okay?”

He can feel Liam’s stare on the side of his face as he turns back to the lecturer at the front of the room, only breathing out a silent sigh of relief a minute later when it breaks away.

There’s sweat at the back of Harry’s neck, a warmth under his arms as he wonders why everyone else seems to think they’ll work it out.

Harry’s in love with Louis. Louis isn’t in love with Harry. There’s nothing _to_ work out.

 _Stupid,_ Harry scolds himself, running a hand through his hair as he makes his way from his lecture to the tutorial for a different subject, anticipating Niall’s happy grin. He’ll have just seen Zayn, so he’s going to be extra bubbly today.

Normally that idea makes Harry happy for his friends, cooing at their romance. Today, all he feels is exhausted by their affection, sullen at the fact he’s never going to have that with the one person he wishes he could.

 _Stupid,_ he tells himself again, dropping into his chair and greeting Niall with a small smile, _to want more, to dream about more._

He gets home late, opening the door to Louis sitting on the couch in the socks from the morning before, a different pair of joggers, and a vest that exposes his tattooed arms to the slightly too cold flat. He drops his head back to greet Harry, grin on his face as he offers up pot noodles and a fork.

 _This is enough,_ Harry thinks as he almost chokes on a noodle through a laugh sometime later, finishing off the meal with a slurp. Louis never can quite finish anything – before Harry moved in, there were unfinished plates all about the flat. Louis would clean up at the end of the day, but the staggering amount of food half-eaten and then packed into the fridge had to stop.

“Alright?” Louis asks him through a mouthful of froth as they brush their teeth in the cramped bathroom later, hips bumping. Harry grins wide, toothpaste sliding down his chin. Louis rolls his eyes but he’s smiling, seemingly appeased.

Harry gets into bed naked, like he always does. He has the memory of Louis up against him, and there’s something that tells him to ask Louis about it – why wasn’t he bothered about so much of Harry’s skin touching his; why couldn’t he sleep, anyway; and why did he ask to stay at all? But all of that fades away as Harry closes his eyes, falling asleep before he can even turn out his bedside light.

 

***

 

“Harry,” Diane begins a few days later, smiling at him from across the bakery during his first shift of the week, “Can I have a chat for a minute?”

“Sure.” Harry answers, letting Alexa take the next customer. He wipes his hands off on his apron and curiously makes his way into the back room, the smell of freshly baked bread always bringing him warmth, the comfort of home – even if Holmes Chapel is an hour away from Manchester by train.

“I would have texted you, but we managed to get Holly in on short notice – you didn’t turn up to your shift on Sunday.”

Harry frowns, wracking his brain for some kind of answer.

“I thought Holly wanted to fill in, though? Extra hours?”

Diane raises her eyebrows, stunned smile still on her pleasant face.

“Well, I’m sure she wasn’t objecting, but you were rostered on then, love.”

Harry’s frown deepens, the hazy memory of Diane calling him and telling him not to come in seeming further and further away the harder he tries to remember it.

“Oh.” Harry says, and there’s a moment where Diane obviously seems to expect an explanation, but Harry hasn’t exactly got one, has he? Her own face goes from confused to resigned in a second, and Harry doesn’t have time to explain, then.

“It’s alright, Harry. You’ve got a good record, never even had a sick day for three years,” She smiles at him, the wrinkles by her eyes deepening, and Harry notices the greying hair at her temples for the first time, “Just let me know next time, yeah?”

The rest of his shift passes by without incident, though Alexa ribs him for losing his memory at an early age, much to Harry’s grumbling.

 _Think I’ve got a problem,_ Harry texts Gemma on his way home, one hand on the bus’s hanging strap, the other typing slowly.

 _Another one?_ She texts back almost instantly, _This is getting out of hand._

 _Fuck off,_ he sends back, smiling. He adds a smiley to make sure she knows he’s not serious, and she sends one right back in response.

 _Want to skype when I get home?_ He texts as he gets off the bus.

_And when’s that? I’ve got a schedule to maintain, little brother._

Harry rolls his eyes.

_Wanker. I’m coming in the door now xx_

“You look knackered.” Gemma tells him bluntly as soon as her picture pops up, purple hair still giving him a shock even though it’s been months.

“Thanks,” Harry replies, grinning cheesily, “Love that.”

Gemma tries to stop a smile, but it’s pretty hopeless.

“What’re you up to?” Harry asks her, and that gets her started on what London’s like, how her writing’s going, all the happenings on with her exciting city life.

“How’s everything on your end? You and Louis still getting into mischief?”

“I’m twenty-one, Gems,” Harry tells her, deadpan, “There is no ‘mischief’.”

“Sure,” Gemma answers, grinning, “He still as pretty as a prince?”

Harry covers his face with his hands, groaning.

“Shut up,” he says through his hands, muffled and embarrassed. Gemma cackles on the other line. “I can’t believe I told you that.”

“You pretty much told the whole bar, babe,” Gemma laughs, shaking her head, “Luckily he wasn’t there, or you’d have been in for it.”

“I know,” Harry groans again, removing his hands from his face, “That’s the worst part. He hates that kind of thing.”

“Not from you, though.” Gemma says warmly, dimpling.

“ _Especially_ from me,” Harry emphasises, ignoring the flutter in his chest, “It’s particularly bad if it comes from me, apparently.”

Gemma hums, and Harry starts up another round of loud, embarrassed groaning that has her laughing across the line.

It’s nice to chat with her, he realises as he rings off an hour or so later – he doesn’t get to do it too often. She’s always telling him he’s got too much on his plate, but Harry thinks a job and a uni degree are pretty standard these days. He likes to go out with friends, too, that’s not too unusual.

He misses home, though. He misses his mum, he misses Robin, he misses Dusty. His sister might be in London, but he misses her, too.

“What’s the matter with you?” Louis asks him ten or so minutes after he gets home from work. He’s got a smirk on his face, which means one of his students did something spectacular today, and all he wants to do is brag about it.

Harry frowns, his heart heavy.

“Miss home,” he mumbles into the cushion he’s wrapped around, lying on the sofa like he is.

“What’s that?” Louis huffs out, ignoring Harry’s grunt as he jumps onto him, pulling at the cushion impatiently. “Speak up, can’t hear you!” He sing-songs.

“I miss my mum, you bloody idiot!” Harry exclaims, laughing as Louis pokes and prods at him in uncomfortable places, eliciting squawks and screeches from Harry, who jolts off the couch with every touch, laughing.

After a few minutes Louis finally stops, panting as he lies next to Harry, chin propped up on his hands, belly on the sofa as Harry lies on his back with face tilted toward him.

They stare at each other for a little while, and all Harry wants to do is brush the curl of a fringe from Louis’ face – but no, that’s not his place. That’s not anyone’s place right now.

Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest, stopping them from twitching out toward his best friend.

“It’s okay to miss home, sometimes,” Louis tells him softly, smiling like he knows exactly what Harry’s thinking, “You know you can talk to me, yeah? Been around the block a time or two, I have.”

“Shut up,” Harry grumbles, feeling petulant, “No one talks like that.”

Louis laughs, loud and obnoxious and lovely.

“ _I_ talk like that, and you’re going to have to deal with it, Curly.” Louis’s lips twitch, like a truly terrible idea just came to mind – but instead, his eyes soften, the air around them going from playful to serious in a heartbeat. The early winter dusk settles in the room, and Harry wishes he could suspend the two of them in this moment – soft, warm light drifting over the angles of Louis’ face like a caress, Harry’s eyes following in rapture... but Louis ducks his head, eyes connecting with Harry’s and bringing them back up to eye-level. “Lost you a moment, there.” He says, and his voice is intrigued, lilting.

Harry chews at his upper lip, wriggling until he’s further up the sofa, his back not protesting as much.

“Just tired,” Harry tells him, which is both true and not at all – Harry’s tired, because he has a job and uni and he’s in love with Louis and always trying to hide it. But also, there’s this tiredness seeping into his bones like he’s never truly felt before – a tiredness at his core, which seems absurd when Harry imagines voicing it out loud to Louis.

What would Louis know? Louis, who teaches kids drama, up and about with so much energy that Harry can hardly keep up even though he’s the younger of the two.

“Miss you.” It’s not what he wanted to say, but he ignores the frantic beating of his heart to take in the way Louis smiles, small and happy.

“S’just a full-time job, H,” he says, and he’s pushing up off the sofa now, hands underneath him, “You’ll see me the same at night, yeah?”

He leans across to give Harry a loud kiss on the cheek, laughing as he pulls up and away. Like someone whacked him over the head with it, Harry’s mind flashes back to Louis cuddling up against him, the warmth of their shared space overwhelming and all-consuming and making Harry’s breath hitch even as he fell into a deep sleep.

“I’ve got Nialler coming over in a half hour, though, so we better cook up double!” Louis calls over his shoulder as he walks down the hall, unaware of Harry lying sprawled on the cushions, with a face likely stricken.

Niall greets Harry with his usual enthusiasm – a sloppy kiss on the cheek and tight hug – an hour later, apologising for his tardiness.

“S’alright, Ni,” Harry tells him, offering up a smile and running a hand through his tangled hair; he’s still in his jeans but changed into his Rolling Stones shirt, feeling the need for its softness, its familiarity, in light of Louis’ subconscious refusal to let Harry’s hugs linger.

_Stop thinking about it._

“I brought home some of that slice you like.” Harry tells him, and Niall’s face lights up, sweet and excited. Harry wonders whether it could ever turn ugly, turn into something he’d be frightened of. Not likely.

They have a pleasant dinner – Louis claiming to have helped, but Harry teasing him about almost burning the pasta, butterflies flitting about his innards – and Niall begs Louis for a game of FIFA. Harry opts out, instead content to sit on the armchair and pretend to read – he’s really sneaking looks at Louis, which has become so par for the course that whenever he’s caught, Louis just sends him a bright grin, pleased at the fact he’s winning.

It’s only once the two of them are on their fourth game that Harry starts to feel properly sick.

“Haz, you alright?” Niall asks, frowning at him. Louis’ gone to the loo, so they’ve paused the match. Niall’s blue eyes seem too bright in the low light of the room, the hour nearing nine. It’s too early for Harry to go to bed, but his stomach won’t stop twisting and turning, his limbs feeling jittery and wrong. It’d been coming on a bit once they sat down, but it’s in full swing now, Harry feeling unsettled and entirely like he might throw up at any moment.

“Not so much, no,” Harry tells him, voice coming out a tad weak. He winces, glad that Louis isn’t here to see him like this – Harry’s done a good job of keeping himself strong in front of him, so he won’t break down and admit things he has no business admitting to his best friend. “Might go have a lie down, I think.”

Niall’s frown deepens, the creases in his brow looking deep and dark, unshakeable.

“Need anythin’?” He asks, shifting to come a little closer but stopping himself when Harry flinches back, scared of giving Niall whatever he’s got. “Lou and I could grab something from the shops; soup, or chocolate, even. Fix you up some tea, maybe?”

“No,” Harry answers, feeling a wave of tiredness sweep over him, his limbs achy and leaden, “I’ll just have a kip. Tell Lou, would you?”

Harry drags himself to his room, shutting the door too loudly and wincing. His head has started to pound, and when he slides under the covers naked, his skin feels too sensitive, like it might get rubbed off if he moves too much. So he stays put, half-lidded eyes staring up at his ceiling, tracing the cracked paint and wondering why everything feels so confusing all of sudden – why, when it’s been years, Louis felt the need to get close to him. He doesn’t understand it; the more he focuses on the way Louis looked that night, the way he felt, the more his brain starts to hurt him, throbbing up against his skull in a punishing rhythm.

When he falls asleep, he feels phantom hands glide over him, soothing just a little in the dark of his room. But Harry knows, he knows it’s his mind playing tricks – because Louis’ laugh can be heard through the walls, with Niall’s following just behind.

 

***

 

“Feeling better?” Louis asks him when he shuffles into the kitchen the next morning just before eight, face feeling puffy.

“Yeah,” Harry tells him, and it’s not a lie for Louis’ benefit this time – he truly does feel better; head no longer aching, limbs feeling their normal weight, no butterflies to be felt anywhere around his organs. He’s a little tired, but that much is to be expected given he’s getting over some kind of sickness. “I’ve got class, besides.”

“Still,” Louis frowns, mug of steaming tea cradled in his hands, “Don’t want you getting worse.” He puts the tea down on the kitchen counter, moving close enough to Harry that he has to crane his neck back to look at his face. His frown is still in place, which means when he slides his hands around Harry and pulls him in for a hug on his tip-toes, it doesn’t feel as foreign – because it’s in concern, Harry realises as he relaxes into it, bringing his hands up to Louis’ waist and resting them there, his cold nose dipping into the nook between neck and shoulder. Louis is concerned, because he’s Harry’s best friend and Harry’s been poorly.

“Well, I feel loads better now. Cheers.” Harry mumbles, squeezing Louis’ waist.

“Fuck off,” Louis laughs, and he pulls back, his eyes squinting up at Harry, pleased and satisfied that he’s well enough to joke, it seems. “My hugs are cure-alls. Daisy will tell you so.”

“I’m not doubting that,” Harry tells him, appreciating the look on Louis’ face – warm, loving – at talk of one of his sisters. “In fact, I can safely say that Daisy Tomlinson is one hundred per cent correct – a cure-all, for sure, as I feel like a million pounds.”

“You don’t _look_ a million pounds,” Louis retorts, suddenly tugging on one of Harry’s greasy curls, “Better shower before uni, then, or the boys will be having none of it.”

“The only boy who matters is you, Lou.” Harry tells him, grinning wide to lessen the truth he can’t help but put in the words.

“Even worse, then, isn’t it?” Louis says, eyebrows raised as he turns back to his tea, Harry’s hands dragging from his waist as he leaves, “You’ve gone and let me see you at your lowest, mate. There’s no going back now.”

Harry ignores the feeling sinking into his bones and escapes from the room. He looks back just as he passes through the doorway to see Louis on his mobile, secret smile turning up his lips.

The fact that it’s not for Harry isn’t lost on him.

 _Shut up, will you?_ Harry tells his traitorous brain, almost tripping over as he wriggles into his jeans. _It’s been ages, you think you’d be used to it by now._

And he is – used to it, that is – because it _has_ been ages. Harry’s no fool, it’s just like he told Liam; if it hasn’t happened by now, it won’t ever. There was one time about eighteen months ago when Harry had high hopes, about seven or so months into this whole loving Louis thing. He’d gone with him to Doncaster, was so excited to meet his family... only to be relegated to pull-out sofa all week, Louis blushing over Lottie’s teasing not about Harry, but about some bloke he’d met a month before at a club somewhere unimportant. It had felt like the biggest punch in the gut, and Harry’d had to occupy himself with Louis’ baby siblings the whole time just to feel a modicum of comfort.

It’s not that Louis doesn’t like Harry – they’re best mates, after all – but Harry feels as if maybe they met at the wrong time. Harry was dating someone else back in second year – Nick, who quickly got tired of Harry talking about nothing else but _Louis, my new roommate_ – and Louis had sworn off dating or some nonsense. Then by the time Harry had realised his feelings, they were firmly in the best mates camp – and living together – and it just never felt the time, never felt like Louis was giving Harry any signals. So he’d left it, and now he’s about two years deep into being in love with Louis Tomlinson, with no hopes on the horizon for change.

So when Niall texts him that night, talking about pints and Zayn, he says yes – because he’s desperate for some kind of distraction from the swirl of thoughts in his head, and watching them together is usually comforting instead of depressing. Harry loves his friends, and he loves seeing them happy and in love. It’s a no brainer, really.

“You’ve got to come, Liam,” Harry tells him that afternoon as they pack up from a tutorial, sound equipment around them, “You haven’t been out with us in ages.”

Liam opens his mouth to deny that, obviously, but Harry raises his eyebrows, sceptical look on his face. Liam’s mouth snaps shut, and he sighs like he’s hard done by, but eventually agrees.

He doesn’t realise Louis would have, of course, been invited until he’s walking up to their table after they’re all one pint in, their seconds sitting in front of them in varying stages of completion.

“Sorry, lads,” He tells them, plopping down next to Niall and now straight across from Harry, “The children had some questions.”

“Don’t say that,” Zayn says from under Niall’s arm, “People are gonna talk, like.”

“Babe,” Niall laughs, “You sure you haven’t had too much?”

“Fuck off.” Zayn scowls, but doesn’t object when Niall pulls him closer, kissing his temple as if to appease him.

“Payno,” Louis says, a surprised note to his voice – Harry snaps his eyes away from the way his fringe curls soft around his cheekbone, the temptation to push it away almost too much. He takes a large sip of his beer, ignoring the stale taste of it. “Didn’t realise you’d be joining us.”

“Yeah,” Harry butts in, mouth dry when Louis’ gaze slides over, “Finally managed to pry him from Sophia. You know how they’ve been fused together for years? Tragic.” Harry shakes his head, smile growing as Liam huffs.

“I’m not that bad.” He protests a little weakly.

“Oh, you are,” Louis tells him lightly, stealing his full pint for himself. Liam doesn’t even look bothered. “But we love and accept you for who you are, Payno. Sophia and all.”

Liam frowns, and Zayn puts a hand on his forearm, suddenly serious.

“We love Soph. Don’t worry about it, alright?” And only Zayn could wipe the frown from Liam’s face so quickly, and with such ease.

The opposite seems to be the case for Harry – Louis brings with him the warmth of Harry’s love for him, but also the anxiety Harry can never shake at the thought of giving himself away; be it with a touch, or a look, or even a sentence. It’s like the table becomes a pressure cooker and it’s only a matter of time before the timer beeps, or the lid gets blown off with it all.

They’re four drinks in when Harry suggests they move things to a club.

Liam groans, Louis looks considering, and Niall and Zayn are all for it – probably because they’ll have a messy snog on the dance floor. Harry doesn’t mind.

“Come on,” Harry needles Liam, sincerely hoping he won’t leave him with Louis at a gay club, of all places, “You’re well fit, you won’t have to pay for a drink the rest of the night.”

“Harry!” Liam scolds him, but he looks thoughtful and that’s enough for Harry to tug on his arm, and then they’re off.

Harry was right – they’re barely in the door ten minutes before Liam gets his free drink, compliments of the slightly scrawny looking bloke by the end of the bar, features fine and pretty. Louis barks out a laugh, head thrown back at the alarmed look that crosses Liam’s face. Harry shakes his head – Liam’s been to gay clubs many times before, been hit on a lot, and yet tonight he feels the need to get uncomfortable?

Harry narrows his eyes at his friend.

“Everything alright?” He asks, giving Liam a poke in the arm for good measure. Liam starts, taking a sip from his straw – the drink’s a bright green, with lime all through it – before nodding rapidly over and over.

“Yeah,” he tells him, “Perfect, mate. I’m just–” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder toward where Niall and Zayn are sat, awfully close, before turning around and walking away without further explanation.

Louis slides up to Harry, passing over a vodka and pineapple to him before saying anything.

“Looks like it’s just you and I, Harold.” He takes a sip of his own drink, a dark red that stains his lips and makes Harry stare just a little too long. “Shall we dance?”

“Lou–”

“No,” Louis cuts him off, smiling, “We’re dancing, Styles. It’s been too long since I’ve seen your moves.”

Louis’ hand in his pulling him into the throng of people makes Harry feel too hot, a little sweaty. He pushes his curls out of his face once they come to a halt, scrunching his nose up at their tangles, before sculling his drink as quick as he can and placing it on the nearest surface, which just so happens to be the tiny ridge shelf that lines the walls nearby.

By the time Louis finishes his drink not much later, there’s the fuzz of alcohol to work through to figure out where Harry should be putting his hands, or how close his hips should be to Louis’ – it’s tricky business, and Harry startles at Louis’ hands on his face, his thumbs smoothing out the subconscious furrow of Harry’s brows. His eyes focus in on Louis, the play of lights across his features making everything seem other-worldly, like Harry’s on a trip or something. It’s been a while since he’s felt that way, but Louis was the only person to touch his drink so it’s unlikely it’s been spiked. Harry blames it on the alcohol and that tiredness in him that tinges the edges of everything he does.

Louis’ shouting something at him, but the thumping bass of the music is too loud, and Harry shakes his head in response, giving him a puzzled look as Louis’ hands pull away from his face and slide down to his shoulders.

As Louis leans up to put his mouth at Harry’s ear, Harry lets a hand span the small of his back, thumb digging in just a little to keep Louis balanced, to keep _Harry_ grounded. It has the awful effect of making Harry think about digging his thumbs elsewhere – like the softness of Louis’ hips, or the firmness of his bum. Maybe Harry shouldn’t have drunk so much, as in love as he is.

“You can do better than that,” Louis shouts in Harry’s ear, words causing his curls to blow about a little, “I’ve seen you in a man sandwich before.”

Harry snorts, grinning, as Louis pulls back to do the same. His eyes glide over the sweat at Louis’ temples before they drunkenly slip past him, focusing on the bodies around. It’s as he does this, hand still on Louis’ back, one of Louis’ on his left shoulder, that he sees Nick.

Their eyes lock, and for some reason Nick takes this as permission to come over, and suddenly Harry’s panicking because Louis is all over him, right up against him, Harry’s belt buckle likely brushing his navel, Louis’ hand resting comfortably on Harry’s shoulder, his lips red and looking kiss-swollen.

Remembering that he and Nick broke up because of Louis nearly makes Harry drop to the floor right there. He manages to contain himself, though, unable to help giving Louis’ waist a squeeze as he drags his hand away, sending a hesitant smile to Nick as he stops just next to them.

“Nick,” he says, clearing his throat to be heard over the music, feeling hot and uncomfortable, “hey!”

Louis frowns, turning around. Harry can’t see his face, but his back is right up against him and there’s no doubting the way his body tenses, like he’s in shock.

When Nick sees who was all over Harry – _it wasn’t like that, I wish it was but it’s not_ – his expression goes from tentatively friendly to a little stormy. It’s been a while since they were together, but it’s bound to be a sore spot regardless of Nick’s feelings for Harry.

“Oh,” Harry sees Nick’s lips form the word, even if he can’t quite hear the way it’s spoken. He imagines it’s probably toneless, and holds back a grimace. “I see how it is, then.”

“Nick–” Harry starts, pushing past Louis a little because this could all go tits up so easily – the wrong word, the wrong tone from his ex, and Louis would _know,_ he’d find out, and then he’d likely never speak to Harry again; Harry, who took their friendship and made it into something it wasn’t.

Nick just laughs, and Harry remembers enough of their time together to know it’s the sarcastic one, where he’s not actually amused at all. Harry bites his lip, eyes flicking to Louis and seeing a raised eyebrow. They never got on too well, but Louis was always... well, he was _polite,_ at least. Same as Nick, until Louis became all Harry talked about.

“I hope he fucks you better than he did me.” Nick shouts at Louis over the music. Harry feels the blood rush from his face, feels his heart take that hit, and watches Nick’s shoulders as they push through the crowd, the hunch of them indicating how upset he is.

“Fuck,” Harry mutters to himself, suddenly feeling a whole lot more drunk than he did a minute ago, “ _Shit._ ”

He turns around, apology on his lips, to see a gleeful expression on Louis’ face.

“Is that why?” He asks, and he laughs, and the bruised feeling in Harry’s chest exacerbates, “He thinks we were together or summat?”

Harry tries to tell him – _not exactly,_ or _kind of,_ or _I’m hopelessly in love with you_ – but Louis’ laughter has turned slightly hysterical now as he clutches Harry with a vice grip, trying to stay upright.

“He knows we’re best mates, right?” Louis manages to pant out through his laughter, and Harry just feels the worst kind of awful – because he can’t even get upset about this, not until he’s alone. Louis is reacting exactly how a best friend would act – exactly how someone completely platonically related to Harry would act. Like _Gemma_ would act, if something like this had happened with her.

Harry feels ill.

“Yeah,” Harry says, because it’s the only thing he _can_ say, holding back the sting of tears like he is, drunk on the dancefloor of the worst fucking gay club in all of Manchester, “He knows.”

Louis doesn’t pick up on the empty tone, or the way Harry can’t stop biting his lip, feeling beaten and bruised and most of all like he just wants to go home – not home to their flat, but back to Holmes Chapel, where he can burrow into his mum’s shoulder and just cry.

He also doesn’t seem to be able to stop laughing, almost to the point where Harry thinks he might be having trouble breathing, which is a new one – Harry’s the one with the asthma, not Louis – and so he pushes his broken heart aside enough to ask, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah!” Louis exclaims, and Harry realises the people around them are still dancing, which makes this whole situation feel bizarre and ludicrous and like he’s in a dream, maybe, “I’m buzzin’!”

It’s a lie – Harry doesn’t realise it at the time, so consumed as he is with what’s just happened, but it’s a lie – because the rest of the night sees Harry having to talk to Zayn (who gives him a shrewd look he chooses to ignore), because Louis pretty much glues himself to Liam. He gets progressively more drunk until Harry has to carry him home, squeezing his eyes shut tightly and clenching his fists when Louis bites into his shoulder, cackling all the while.

The next morning Louis refuses to look at him, claiming a hangover, and that he doesn’t remember a thing. Harry would believe him – it’s not the first time, a few drunken kisses forgotten by Louis the next morning particularly memorable for Harry – but he spends the next week avoiding Harry’s eyes, so Harry knows he remembers. Why he doesn’t want to admit that, or talk about it, has Harry stumped.

“It’s embarrassing, isn’t it?” Alexa tells him on a lazy Sunday, the afternoon buzz at the bakery having died down. “He’s been wished a better fuck by you from your ex. Despite his feelings, that’s fucking awkward, Harry.”

Harry scrunches up his nose, feeling like something has buried itself in his chest, but not entirely sure what.

When he gets home, the flat is dark. Louis is out, which is no surprise. He’s been out every time Harry’s had time off, and the nature of their friendship means that Louis knows the ins and outs of Harry’s schedule. Normally, Harry would know Louis’ as well, but he seems to have deliberately changed it in anticipation of Harry’s plans to confront him about what happened at the club.

Sighing, Harry dumps his bag in the corner by his bedroom door, kicks off his shoes, and drops heavily onto his bed, blowing his hair out of his face as it settles across his cheek.

He spies his guitar, sitting in its stand, and turns his back on it – it’s been too long since he wrote anything, the worry that Louis would hear something in his songs Harry didn’t want him to stopping him from putting pen to journal. He misses the feel of the fret under his fingers, knows he’ll have to grow back his callouses by this point, it’s been so long.

Somehow, some time, he falls asleep – the softness of his trackpants and his baggy t-shirt lulling him into unconsciousness, an unusual feat.

He wakes because he’s too hot. That’s not a surprise, given the clothes he has on; but that’s not all, it seems. When Harry goes to sit up, he’s stopped by a weight on his left arm. He turns his head, shaking away the wayward curls at his chin, to see Louis looking up at him. He seems small on top of Harry’s covers, shoulders pinning Harry’s forearm to the bed.

“Lou,” Harry croaks out, groggy and confused and half sat up. He must be dreaming – why else would Louis be looking at him, sharing his bed? “What’s goin’ on?”

Louis shifts, and his face looks serene in the moonlight coming through Harry’s open curtains – _what time is it?_ – until his face is so close to his, Harry can feel his breath on his own chin, feel the way Louis seems to be almost vibrating with... _something._ Nerves, maybe. Harry’s too tired, too puzzled to figure it out.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, voice smooth despite his trembling, “I know it’s been a while.”

Nine days is a while for Harry, but for Louis? Louis has avoided people for weeks; months, even.

“S’alright,” Harry mumbles anyway, unable to stop his eyes flicking down to Louis’ lips for a second, going right back up to his eyes when his tongue comes out to wet them. “I forgive you.”

Louis huffs out a soft laugh, eyelashes long as he looks down at his lap in what Harry would describe as shyness, even if Louis hasn’t been shy about a thing in his life – his friendship with Harry included.

When he tilts his head back up – hair looking ruffled and soft and all Harry wants to do is push a hand into it – he stares at Harry evenly, like he’s waiting for something. It’s maybe thirty seconds, if that, before he rolls his eyes and huffs, pushing forward gently to capture Harry’s lips in his.

It’s... it’s a shock. Harry wasn’t expecting this – not when he’s never expressed his feelings, _especially_ not after the debacle with Nick at the club. The shock is the most prominent feeling, but after a minute or so he’s spurred into action when Louis nips at his bottom lip. It’s then that all Harry can think about is the heat of Louis against him. His legs are tangled with Harry’s, the flannel of his pyjamas catching against his sweats. His hands cradle Harry’s face, his lips hot against his. Harry makes an aborted sort of groan, feeling his cheeks flush at the sound. Louis pulls back, laughing, and Harry can’t help but pull him into himself again, brushing their lips tenderly, feeling electricity in his veins, the buzz of _this is really fucking happening._

Harry’s hands drift from Louis’ shoulders down his sides to rest on his hips, and he squeezes, relishing in the feel of Louis there, almost as if he’s been indulging himself a little more than usual. Harry loves every inch of him, he realises – in that moment, and for always.

It’s not until they pull away, Harry panting and Louis smiling, that Harry even feels the weird ache of his back from his position, Louis hovering over him. He pulls at Louis’ waist, encouraging him to let Harry fall back.

“You can do better than that,” Louis breathes, looking at him with a challenge in his eyes, and the reference to that night in the club last week makes Harry feel a little woozy as he flips them over, Louis looking wide-eyed but pleased underneath him. Harry crushes their lips together, suddenly frantic, licking into Louis with a fervour he didn’t know he possessed.

“Slow,” Louis mutters as he pulls away, bringing his hot hands up to Harry’s cheeks, fingers lightly scratching at them and making Harry shudder, panting against Louis’ lips, “Slow it down, babe.”

Harry’s eyes flutter at the nickname – and although he knows Louis usually favours ‘love’, and ‘darling’, he pushes away those thoughts and realises this is just for him, just for Harry. Harry is _babe,_ just like Louis is Harry’s everything.

“This is just for us,” Louis tells him minutes or hours later when Harry breaks away to breathe. His pupils are wide, his cheeks flushed like he’s just run a marathon but feels energised, “You and I... just us, just now.”

“Anything,” Harry agrees, boggled that he’s getting this at all, “Whatever you want.”

Louis smiles slowly, pleased, before Harry kisses him again.

 

***

 

When Harry wakes the next morning, he has a moment of blind panic at the empty space beside him. But he looks at the clock, realises it’s half eight, and calms down – Louis starts late on Mondays, which means he leaves the flat at about nine. It’s then that Harry hears his voice from the kitchen, and the last stirrings of nerves float away.

Harry puts on some boxer briefs out of habit – they’re threadbare, one of his older pairs so there’s not much left to the imagination ( _Not like it matters,_ Harry thinks with a dopey smile) – before he makes his way to the kitchen, feet heavy with exhaustion from his disturbed sleep.

Louis’s sitting at the counter on one of their high stools, his clothed back to Harry. He’s got his mobile in his left hand and is scooping cereal from a bowl with the spoon in his right. He’s grinning down at his phone, and all Harry wants to do is kiss that smile, sod the morning breath the both of them surely have.

Instead, he comes up behind Louis, sliding his hands forward to cradle his hips and resting his chin on his left shoulder. Louis tenses, just enough to have a flicker of unease start up in Harry’s belly before he decides to push on.

“Mornin’,” he greets him, kissing him on the cheek, “what’s so funny?”

“Niall’s bein’ a twat, that’s what,” Louis says, and his voice sounds a little reedy, his spoon hovering in mid-air and dripping milk back into his bowl, “Thinks he’s funny.”

“Niall _is_ funny.” Harry comments, bringing his left hand up to better position Louis’ phone, his palm resting over his fingers as he adjusts to see.

He barely sees his name, something about aliens, and a few swears before Louis is pulling the mobile away, chuckling.

“What’s with the touching?” He gets out through his chuckles, shrugging Harry off his shoulder in the same breath.

Something inside Harry goes cold.

“What d’you mean?” He asks, trying not to sound as confused as he is as Louis swivels in his seat, legs spread as if waiting for Harry to step between them. He seems to read Harry’s mind, and hastily crosses them over, leaning his back into the counter. “I always touch you.” _I touched you last night,_ Harry doesn’t say.

“Sure,” Louis says, raising his eyebrows, “Just... not like that, I s’pose.”

“Right,” Harry chokes out, realising in that second exactly what’s happening, “Well. Won’t happen again. Promise.”

Louis waves him away – waves away Harry’s feelings, that night in the club, kissing Harry in the dark.

“We’re all good, H. You’ve got uni, yeah?” He hops off his seat, pocketing his phone and forgetting about his cereal altogether, “Lock up proper. I’m going out tonight after work, won’t be back ‘til late.”

He goes to leave then seems to think better of it, eyeing Harry a bit before he darts forward, fingers digging into Harry’s chest and wriggling about until they twist a nipple. The sharp pain causes Harry to jerk away, covering himself instinctually.

Louis cackles, grinning, before grabbing his bag and yelling out a goodbye just before the door slams shut.

Harry’s left staring at the soggy Coco Pops with bleary eyes, wondering what the fuck just happened.

 _This is fine,_ he thinks as he gets ready for class in a daze, _this is absolutely fine._

“That’s fucked,” Zayn tells him that night after Harry’s relayed the story, leaving out more of the intimate details like how he’s been in love with Louis for years. “You sure he wasn’t pissed last night?”

Harry thinks of Louis’ minty breath, no alcohol to be tasted; he thinks of his bright eyes, alert and fully there.

“I’m positive,” Harry slurs, taking another hit of the blunt. As he exhales, he pauses a second. Then shakes his head. “Yeah, if he was drunk enough to forget, I would have known.”

“This is almost as bad as Niall in first year.” Zayn says to the ceiling. Harry reckons they probably shouldn’t be smoking on the floor – least of all at Zayn’s flat, considering it’s _Niall_ and Zayn’s flat and Niall hates when Zayn forgets to open the windows, which is exactly what he’s forgotten to do right now.

“Niall just thought you wanted to suck his dick,” Harry says, “not that you wanted to marry him. This is nothing like Niall in first year.”

Zayn shrugs, his hair flopping over his face, sticking a little to his cheeks with his sweat. Harry wishes he could be in love with _him,_ and not Louis Tomlinson. At least Zayn wouldn’t pretend like shit never happened.

“It’s not even like he’s acting _normal,_ ” Harry whines a few minutes later, Pink Floyd still playing softly in the background, “If he was, I think I’d be alright with it. But he’s bein’... strange.”

From the corner of his eyes, Harry sees Zayn roll his.

“Haz,” Zayn says, eyes red as he sits up and shoots Harry a deadpan look, “ _You’re_ strange. Everyone else is just tryin’ to keep up with you.”

“Shove it,” Harry groans, rolling over, “Why did I even come to you? I should’ve asked your live-in boy toy.”

“Oi!” Zayn protests, frowning hard, “Niall is not a boy toy.”

“Does _he_ know that, though?” Harry retorts, looking for a fight. Zayn pushes him, and they spend the next fifteen minutes wrestling clumsily on the floor of Niall and Zayn’s flat until they end up spent on the ground, panting heavily through the fog of their highs.

“Just ask him out on a date, Haz,” Zayn tells him, eyes half-lidded, “Like, I dunno. Mates, or more... just ask him.”

Louis gives him a quizzical look the next night, when Harry asks him whether he wants to go and see the new _Wonder Woman_ movie.

“That’s not really your kind of film, Harry.” He says warily, and Harry ignores the way it feels like he’s trying to find an excuse not to go.

“Chris Pine, feminism, a period piece? What’s not to like?”

The laugh he gets at that makes Harry feel much better, because suddenly Louis’ shoulders are loose; the crinkles by his eyes seem permanent, not fleeting; and he’s emanating warmth as they walk to the cinema together, elbows knocking in the cold.

It’s only when they’re in line for snacks that Harry sees it.

“Oh.” he’s helpless to say, feeling sad and disappointed.

“What?” Louis asks him, peering at the mobile in Harry’s hands, probably wondering what made Harry’s face get that way. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Harry shakes his head, putting his phone back in his coat pocket and smiling, “Just a mistake with an essay.”

“Oh yeah?” Louis prods him, both verbally and physically. Harry relishes in the teasing, even if he can’t keep his eyes off the way Louis looks in those jeans, the collarbones that peek out of his red t-shirt, “You get 120 instead of 100?”

Harry laughs, but there must be something in it that makes Louis stop short and frown at him. He abandons the snacks line to pull Harry aside, tugging on his hand and not letting go, not even when they stop beside a pillar, out of everyone’s way.

“Haz?” Their hands are basically entwined now, and Harry’s having trouble breathing – but maybe that’s not because Louis’ touching him, but because he just got his first fail on a uni assignment. It’s like the words come out without his permission, and they hang awkwardly in the air.

“It’s fine,” Harry gets out, smiling as he wipes at his face, “Just wasn’t expecting it.”

“Harry–” Louis starts, and Harry shakes his head at his tone, sad and worrisome and a little pitying.

“I’m honestly fine.” His head feels achy, he feels a little ill at the thought of failing a major assignment, and Louis is still pretending like they didn’t kiss for hours the other night – but Harry’s fine, he’s okay. He’ll make up for the fail, he’ll sleep off the headache, and being friends with Louis is enough.

He’s abruptly pulled into a hug, and somehow it’s exactly what he needed – Louis touching him again, giving him affection. He pulls Harry’s head down to bury it in his shoulder, and if Louis’ collar is a little damp when they pull away after a few long moments, it’s because they’re best friends that he doesn’t say anything about it.

If Louis holds Harry’s hand during _Wonder Woman_ ... well, it’s also because they’re best friends. Harry knows it doesn’t mean anything. Harry’s _fine with it._

It’s only as they’re coming out of the film, Louis seeming a little too enthusiastic in his analysis – like he’s trying to distract from the fact he’s pulling his hand from Harry’s and shoving it in his coat pocket – that Harry realises that maybe just because _he’s_ fine, that doesn’t mean _Louis_ is.

“Are you alright?”

Louis glances at him, suddenly mute. There’s barely a second of hesitation – Harry only notices because he’s Harry and this is _Louis_ – before Louis smiles.

“I’m lovely, Harold.”

And although there’s a part of Harry that wants to press further, to crack open Louis and crawl inside, he realises he should probably take what he can get. What good would it do to scare away his best friend again? Harry would rather have some of Louis than none at all.

He tells himself this constantly over the next week, headache persistent – he should probably send Zayn a fruit basket, because his date idea worked almost _too_ well. Louis may not be kissing him when the sun’s out, but he’s not shrugging away from Harry’s hugs, and he’s not avoiding the flat like it’s got a rat infestation, anymore. In fact, more than once, Harry comes home to Louis fast asleep in his bed, curled up and wearing one of Harry’s larger jumpers.

It makes his heart pang, his blood rush through his veins – everything seems so close, yet so far away. Louis isn’t making this easy, either way; he’s making it harder for Harry to say no, and yet giving no indication as to how Harry can confess his feelings.

The whole thing causes Harry’s head to spin. He feels a little too wrung out – he swaps shifts at work, then forgets to go to his new ones. He doesn’t think he’s apologised this much to Diane in his life, but she just looks at him sadly and forgives him.

He tells himself to slow it down, shuddering at the memory. But Louis was right – Harry needs to take a breather, to let Louis set the pace. Besides, it seems like Louis might be having trouble himself, always off with Niall, frowning down at his phone more than he is laughing at it these days.

It’s when Louis visits again that things go from okay to _Probably should do something about this._

“Lou,” Harry murmurs against Louis’ lips at the feel of his hand tugging at his briefs. Harry’s taken to wearing underwear to bed as some kind of boundary-setter.

He doesn’t want to do anything like that when Louis can’t even say the words after sunrise.

“It’s alright,” Louis murmurs back, his left hand cradling the side of Harry’s face, eyes wide and blue, “We trust each other, don’t we?”

Harry stares at him, looks between his clear eyes, knows he’s of right mind, knows he’s making a choice. Harry’s helpless in that moment. This is Louis. _Louis._ There is no choice here, not for Harry.

“Of course I trust you,” Harry whispers, feeling his mind go sharp and clear with how true that statement is. “I–”

Louis kisses him, his hand grabbing his dick in the same movement. Harry moans, squeezing his eyes shut as Louis strokes him, sure and fast.

“Lou,” Harry says brokenly, and Louis shushes him, kissing down his neck, sucking at his pulse point, “Lou, I–”

The words get lost as he comes, faster than he would with anyone else – but Louis knew exactly where to touch, and how; he knew that Harry wouldn’t be able to take the rhythm of his hand on Harry’s cock and his tongue lapping at his neck; he probably knew Harry would want a hickey, something to press into in the coming days to remember that night.

Harry wakes up alone, no Louis in his bed or in the flat at all, and realises that he needs to tell someone.

He turns up at Liam’s flat unannounced the next day, biting his bottom lip raw with worry as he tries to think of the best way to tell him – Zayn might have been the better option, but he wasn’t answering Harry’s calls and generally Niall’s the only person who can get him out of those kind of moods.

Louis, of course, would be the person Harry would usually go to – but that’s not really an option. Niall’s too perceptive, and so Liam it is.

“Harry,” Liam greets him, tone laced with surprise, “What are you doing here?”

“Can I talk to you?” Harry asks him, and Liam simply stands aside, letting Harry walk past him into their flat. Sophia must be out, because Liam’s got his uni papers spread out on the table and his laptop open.

“This is goin’ to sound fuckin’ weird,” Harry warns him, rubbing a hand over his tired face as they sit down at Liam’s table with tea.

Liam frowns with those bushy eyebrows of his. Harry wants to make a joke about furry caterpillars but stops himself. _Focus._

“If you... if you were in love with someone,” Liam’s eyebrows shoot up, “And they seemed to want to be with you, but only when you two were alone... what would you do?”

Liam looks stunned – whether it’s at Harry’s confession, or at the fact Harry’s asking him about this very particular scenario, is uncertain. He recovers soon enough, though – _thank God for rational Liam, Harry thinks_ – and looks thoughtful.

“When you say you’re alone, you mean... ?” He trails off, looking at Harry meaningfully. Harry tries to fight the blush that wants to make its way to his face, thinking of how Louis laid underneath him, cheeks flushed with want.

“Right,” Liam says, and that snaps Harry back to the moment, “Well, I think I’d say it doesn’t really sound like they want to be with you, Haz.”

Harry frowns, remembering Louis’ soft voice, his earnest face. It’s _Louis._ They’re best friends.

“We’re friends,” Harry blurts out, “We’ve been friends for ages. I don’t think...”

“Harry,” begins Liam, and his tone makes Harry’s heart catch, his chest feel tight with panic, “Maybe they’re not who you thought they were.”

“You don’t understand,” Harry pushes on, frowning into his half-empty mug, unable to articulate himself properly with all the feelings swirling around upstairs, “I think... I think they might love me.”

The flat is silent, and Harry looks up to see Liam’s brows do something funny, like he’s trying not to show that he feels sorry for him.

“I mean,” Harry rushes to clarify, feeling like a child making excuses for a parent, “I know they love me. You know – as a friend, yeah? We’re good friends. It’s just...”

“It’s just you’ve been shagging,” Liam licks his lips, considering, “and you want more than friends with benefits.”

“We haven’t even been shagging,” Harry blurts, and Liam’s eyebrows shoot up like they did before, but higher this time, “It’s just–” Harry pushes his hair back out of his face, feeling a sting behind his eyes that he refuses to acknowledge, “more. More than friends, but not shagging.”

Suddenly, Liam’s face clears, like he gets it. Like he understands.

“I never told you,” he starts after a moment, taking a sip of his own tea before continuing, “But a few months ago, me and Soph... we had a bad patch.”

“What?” Harry breathes out, sitting up straighter, wondering where this is going. They’d seemed fine; the best, even. “You never said.”

“Yeah,” Liam laughs dryly, shaking his head, “Well. Didn’t want the ridicule, I suppose.”

“Liam,” Harry starts softly, but Liam shakes his head again.

“That’s not the point, though,” He tries to get back on track, pinning Harry with a hard look, “The point is that maybe I was having feelings for someone else a bit,” Harry tries not to show his shock, “I thought we were just friends, but Soph kept telling me it looked different. Then... well, then he kissed me.” Harry rears back at that, because Liam’s never said he was into blokes. Harry’s known Liam since uni, and he’s never given any indication, never even expressed curiosity... “I didn’t kiss back, of course.” Liam clarifies, frowning, “I came straight home to Soph and told her what happened, said I understood what she meant.”

“I’m sorry, Liam.” Harry says, reaching across the table to rest a comforting hand on his friend’s.

“It’s alright, we’re alright now.” Liam tells him, smiling. “But when I look back on it, I don’t know what I was thinking, really. I was confused, vulnerable... and this person, when I think about it now, didn’t have my best interests at heart. I thought – when I had my shit together later with Soph – I thought ‘They were angling for something’,” Liam pulls his hand out from under Harry’s then, and places it on top instead, squeezing, eyes pleading just a little, “And they were. Whether it was for one night, or to hurt Soph, or to hurt _me,_ ” He inhales sharply, “It wasn’t nice. They weren’t a nice person, even if I’d thought so back then.”

 _But it’s Louis,_ Harry’s brain insists.

“So I’m telling you, Harry,” Liam shakes his arm, stubborn, “If they won’t admit to anything outside of the bedroom, if they’re not seeing how this is troubling you, or how it might trouble you... they’re not someone you should be with.”

Harry makes his way home, head throbbing, wondering how the hell he’s going to talk to Louis about this – only to arrive to a note on the fridge, Louis’ scrawl messier than usual.

 _Gone to N + Z’s,_ it reads, _don’t wait up._

Harry stares at it for a full minute before crumpling up the note, wiping at his face as he throws it in the bin.

 

***

 

“You look like death,” Holly tells him that Saturday when he walks into the bakery. Harry knows – he saw himself in the mirror before he left home, after all; dark circles under his eyes, hair limp, face pale, lips chapped. It’s winter, yes, but he’s never looked this off. “And not the sweet kind.” She clarifies.

“Thanks, Holly.” mutters Harry, shoving his apron over his head. His beanie becomes his hairnet, and Holly takes pity on him during a lull and makes a hot chocolate about an hour later, hugging him tight when he looks on the verge of tears at her gift.

“Sorry,” Harry says through a watery smile, “Not usually like this.”

“Everything okay?” She asks, hand on his arm. Harry shudders, feeling sensitive and too hot and poorly, pulling away.

“Under the weather, makes me teary,” is the excuse he gives, trying not to think about the fact that Louis hasn’t seen him, day or night, since the last time he was in his bed, asking _We trust each other,_ his eyes wide and pleading, _don’t we?_

He’s saved by the arrival of a few more customers, pasting a smile on his face and talking about all the ways their baked goods will make you feel better; but knowing even if he takes home the orange and poppy seed himself, he won’t feel like he’s eating summer in a cupcake.

 _Mate,_ Niall’s sent him via text, Harry reading through it as he turns from work to leave for the bus home, _Bring home one of those croissants ?_

The bakery’s locked up, all the food put away. Harry’s got the keys in his hands, and usually he’d happily go back in, grab a croissant, and lock up all over again.

But he thinks of Louis, constantly hiding away in Niall’s flat, and something comes over him.

_Sorry! Already left xx_

He brings up Zayn’s contact – itching to do anything but go home, and Liam’s spending the weekend away with Sophia; all their time together makes sense, now – and types.

_Niall’s at mine, can I come to you? xx_

Zayn sends the thumbs up emoji barely a minute later, and Harry skips his usual bus and gets on the next one, which’ll take him to right outside Zayn’s flat.

His dark-haired friend looks similarly wrung out when Harry unlocks the flat with his spare key, lying on the sofa with a doona up to his chin.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, frowning as he crouches down in front of Zayn.

Zayn’s eyes are red, but it’s not from the weed this time. No. Zayn’s been crying.

“You said Niall was at yours?” He asks, voice a little croaky. His eyes drift from in front of himself to Harry.

“Yeah,” Harry answers, taking out his phone and showing Zayn the text. When he reads it, his jaw clenches. Wordlessly, he takes out his own mobile, tapping a few times and then shoving it in Harry’s face.

 _When r u going to be home?_ Zayn’s sent, around three o’clock. So about two hours ago, now.

 _Got held back at work ! :(_ is Niall’s reply, _Won’t be home til 7, dove !_

_[beer emoji] is waiting, babe xx_

Harry looks back at Zayn, whose eyes are dry but whose lips are a bit wobbly.

“He’s never lied to me before.” Zayn says, soft and sad, “He’s always told me everything.”

Harry looks back down at the phone, Niall’s text seeming odder by the second. He sighs, pulling off his coat, shoving off his boots, and crawling onto the sofa with Zayn, curling up behind him even if he’s usually the little spoon.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Harry tells him, trying not to think about the fact it’s _Louis_ that Niall is with, and what could they possibly be doing that Niall would lie to his boyfriend of _years_ about? “Misunderstanding. Maybe it’s a surprise. We don’t know.”

Zayn’s silent, and Harry thinks _Yeah. Yeah, me too._

They stay like that for an hour, probably. It’s nice to cuddle with Zayn, even if he’s mostly all bones. Something grounding about it, which is probably why Niall’s always whining on about missing it.

Harry tries not to think of Niall.

He trudges through his own front door around seven, having left after Zayn promised to ask Niall why he’d lied – Harry’s own love life might be a mess, but he’s not going to stand by and see his friends suffer for it.

Niall’s not there, so Harry hopes he’s at home, talking to Zayn, having make-up sex.

“Hey,” Louis greets him from their sofa, smiling, a little tired around the eyes, “How was your day?”

He doesn’t ask where Harry’s been between work and now, and Harry doesn’t offer.

“Alright, yeah,” he answers woodenly, sitting down on the other end of the sofa, trying not to blurt out something stupid like _Is Niall cheating on Zayn with you?_ because that would be dumb, and immature, and definitely not true. “Long, though. Sorry about the croissants.”

Louis waves him off, swinging his legs up onto the cushions, pushing his toes into Harry’s thigh like he would do before this whole mess started.

“Niall was desperate, but he got all quiet when Zayn sent him a snappy text so he forgot about it pretty quickly.” Harry bites his lip, wondering what Zayn sent that had Niall so quiet – that made him leave early, by the sounds of it.

“You need rest, Haz,” Louis tells him after a long moment, and Harry turns his head to see Louis has his cocked, eyes roving over Harry like he’s assessing him for injuries. “You look wrecked.”

Harry huffs out a laugh – ‘wrecked’ is putting it lightly, he’s definitely getting sick again – bringing a hand up to rest on top of Louis’ socked ankle. Louis freezes up, and part of Harry wants to snap at him, have a go, say _Why do you hate it when I touch you now, but love it when I touch you in my bed?_ But he doesn’t. Because he’s tired, and Louis would just look at him like he’s crazy, spout out a denial, run away, and Harry just doesn’t have the energy to deal with that. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

“I’m off to bed.” Harry mumbles, giving Louis’ foot a squeeze before he gets up.

“Alright,” Louis says softly, and Harry feels his eyes follow him until he’s out of sight.

He locks the bathroom for good measure, not wanting the Louis who actually wants to touch him to appear, wet and dangerous.

He almost wishes he had a lock on his bedroom door, too, but soon shakes himself from that thought, wet curls sticking to his neck as he lies in bed. He’s said it before, and he’ll say it again – he’ll take however much of Louis he can get; he’d rather some than none at all.

Which is why when Louis slides into his bed during the middle of the night that Wednesday, all Harry does is lift his arm and let him get comfortable, accepting his kisses lazily through his dozing, eyes closed and feeling warm in bed. Warm and sleepy.

“Lou,” Harry mumbles when he feels his hand drift down, “M’tired.”

“I know, babe,” Louis replies softly, soothing and wonderful, his breath warm over Harry’s cheek, “But this’ll help. Let me do this for you.”

“Lou,” Harry frowns, eyes still closed, thoughts sluggish, “You never–”

“I will,” Louis insists, stubborn, cupping Harry’s cock, “I always do, don’t worry.”

Harry can’t help but shift his hips up, chasing Louis’ grip, breath hitching when he flicks a thumb over the head, pace sure and steady. He can’t quite get there, though; not even with the hot press of Louis’ mouth at his neck. He’s just so tired – it’s hard to focus on anything but the temptation of sleep, the caress of it at the edges of his thoughts.

Louis grumbles, something petty and adorable before he dips down, licking his way until he’s got Harry in his mouth.

“Lou,” Harry groans out, and suddenly his pleasure his tenfold, his hips jerking off the bed and almost making Louis choke, “Sorry, sorry. _Lou._ ”

It takes barely a minute, Louis wiping his mouth once he’s done, Harry’s tattooed chest red and flushed, heaving with it as the grogginess takes over again, limbs heavy.

He falls asleep in five minutes, Louis a heavy and comforting weight on his chest.

To his surprise he wakes not to his alarm, but to Louis. He’s dressed, and he’s straddling Harry – and not in a sexy way, either, because he’s shouting, and Harry feels a sharp pain in his face.

“What?” Harry groans, pushing at Louis’ nosy hands, “Stop.”

“Thank _fuck,_ ” Louis sighs out, gripping at Harry’s wrists, “What the fuck, Harry? I’ve been trying to wake you up for _twenty fucking minutes._ ”

He must zone out, because Louis _slaps_ him. “ _Haz!_ ”

Harry frowns, blearily opening his eyes. Everything’s out of focus, but he sees Louis above him. As he gets clearer, Harry sees the panicked look on his pale face, eyes wide. He turns his head, feels around for his phone before he brings it up to his face, reading the time.

“It’s only seven, Lou,” Harry rasps out, “Why’d you wake me?”

“Because you’ve been asleep this whole bloody time.” Louis spits out, shifting so he’s sitting next to Harry on his bed.

“That’s generally the idea.” Harry tells him, rubbing a hand over his face. He’s so bloody exhausted, still.

“It’s Friday, Harry.” Louis informs him, monotone.

“It’s Thursday.” Harry responds, opening his eyes properly. Louis isn’t laughing, he’s not smiling. In fact, he seems a little wild. Like maybe he didn’t get any sleep last night. Which is kind of exactly how Harry feels.

“You missed work,” Louis tells him, taking the phone from Harry’s hands and showing him his missed calls, the text messages from Alexa asking him where he is. “I had to call them and tell them there’d been a family emergency. Said Gemma was in a car accident,” He shrugs, and suddenly he seems angry, throwing the phone onto the covers roughly, “So fucking remember that the next time you decide to go in. Luckily you didn’t have uni today.”

Harry’s not really awake enough yet to properly realise what’s happened. All he knows is what’s in front of him – Louis angry, Louis tired, and that maybe he can fix it. There’s a chance, here in the early morning between night and day, that Louis might accept it. Might welcome it, even.

“You alright?” murmurs Harry, bringing a hand up to rub underneath Louis’ eyes, dark circles stark. Louis flinches away, and Harry’s stomach churns uncomfortably, his hand frozen in mid-air. He clenches his jaw, slowly drops his arm, and waits for Louis to speak.

“I’m fine,” Louis snaps suddenly, running a hand through his messy hair, “I’m always fine. Why are you always asking me?” He turns his eyes onto Harry, hard and unforgiving. “You’re the one who fucking slept for thirty-three hours straight.” He stands up jerkily, hesitating barely a moment before turning and striding out of the room, fists clenched at his sides.

Harry’s left frowning down at his rumpled sheets, feeling a little cold given his chest has been bared to the early morning chill. He picks up his phone again, unlocking it to see the missed calls, the missed texts. His mum tried to reach him, and Harry’s heart sinks. They’d been planning to chat for weeks, the both of them too busy for any other time but Thursday night – he’d been so looking forward to it, and now he’s gone and bullocksed it up.

“ _Shit,_ ” he groans, rubbing his face with his left hand, rings a cold nip against his cheeks, “Damnit.”

He reads her one text, heart sinking further and further down, right through his bed and onto the wooden floor.

_Love, sorry I missed you. Did you forget? Hope you’re well, love you so much. Ring me back soon, darling xx_

Tears prick at his eyes, and Harry watches numbly as wet splotches appear on his bed sheets, as his cheeks begin to feel clammy. He’s so angry at himself. He’s really fucked everything up royally – the trust he has with his boss, his friendship with Louis, and now his communication with his mum. He doesn’t even know what’s going on with Niall – maybe he’s having a hard time of it. What would Harry know?

He just keeps seeing Louis’ angry face, hearing that cold tone of voice... God, it’s really the fucking _worst._

Louis finds him still in bed a half hour later, staring up at the ceiling with tears leaking out the corner of his eyes, sniffing pathetically.

“Oh, _love,_ ” he says, and Harry scrunches up his face at how pitying he sounds, a sob breaking through everything – it’s such a contrast to how Louis was before that it leaves Harry breathless. He flinches away from him when he comes close, sitting by Harry’s hip and putting a soft palm on Harry’s left shoulder.

Harry turns, his back to Louis as he cries into his pillow, one hand by his head and the other gripping his sheets tightly.

“Love, please don’t. It’s alright.” Louis pulls at Harry’s shoulder, and he’s so tired, so weak, so overcome with everything that’s happened that he lets him, even if his exhausted mind is telling him he shouldn’t – he’s given enough of himself to Louis, he doesn’t deserve anymore.

 _What’s the rest of you?_ a voice whispers from a deep, dark place. _When he already has so much?_

“Love,” Louis says, and his eyes are teary now, too, his left hand coming up to wipe under Harry’s eyes, and to wipe over them, dry his clumped eyelashes. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” croaks Harry, sniffling again, feeling his heart squeeze when Louis tilts his head, smiling wryly with crinkles by his eyes.

“You’ve been out of sorts, yeah? What’s happened?” His eyes dart between Harry’s, worried and curious, like he doesn’t know. Like he has no idea.

Harry stares at him – at Louis Tomlinson, the love of his life; the man he wants to be with until he can no longer remember who he is, until he’s old and withering away in a nursing home somewhere, until their children’s _children_ have children. Harry stares at him, horrified.

“What are you talking about?” He replies, low and a little fearful, pulling away from Louis’ tender touches on his face. “You know exactly what’s happened.”

Louis frowns as he drops his hand, his soft fringe making him look younger than his twenty-three years. “Harry–”

“You’re not– you’re not even going to say it?” Harry asks, voice soft and defeated, feeling his eyes well up again, his breath hitch. “You can’t say it... can you?”

Louis’ face pales and his eyes drift to stare down at Harry’s covers, like he can’t even look at him – like he can’t even acknowledge all the ways he’s touched Harry in this very bed; like he doesn’t _want_ to acknowledge it.

“Get out,” Harry tells him, his voice barely a whisper. Louis’ eyes snap to him, his mouth opening to say something – but Harry can’t bear to hear it, not now. “ _Please leave._ ” He repeats, voice firmer.

The room is silent. Harry stares down at his hands, which twist and turn the wrinkled sheets beneath him, which ache with Louis being so close. The room is silent, and then Louis leaves, just like Harry asked him to.

 

***

 

Louis slips into his bed that night, Harry’s Rolling Stones t-shirt hanging off of him, ripped and so threadbare that he can peek the dark shape of Louis’ nipples through the cotton.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmurs as soon as he’s settled, burying his head into Louis’ neck. He’s so tired – it’s well past midnight, and he spent the day doing uni assignments, ignoring the fact that Louis didn’t come home after work like he usually would – didn’t seem to come home at all until he slipped into Harry’s bed, waking him from a heavy doze. “I’m sorry, Lou, you have to know–”

“Shh,” Louis hums, scratching Harry’s scalp, eliciting a broken off moan from him, the vibrations sure to tickle his goosebumped skin. “I forgive you, babe.”

Harry shudders, feeling relief trickle through him. He wasn’t angry at Louis – it’s not his fault, is it? Louis wants to keep it casual, maybe. Doesn’t want messy feelings, doesn’t want to know Harry’s in love with him. Who’s Harry to project his feelings onto Louis like that? It’s not fair to him.

It’s not like it’s fair to Harry, either; but Harry’s putting _himself_ through that. No one else.

“Can I stay?” Louis breathes as Harry pulls back. His eyes are wide, dark pupils blown. In this light, his eyes almost look dark, like the pupil’s taken over his light irises. His hair is soft, a little longer than Harry remembers it being this morning, maybe. Harry looks down at him and realises that Louis could ask for anything – could _do_ anything – and Harry would say yes.

Louis can stay, Louis can leave. Harry will let him.

“Of course,” Harry murmurs, leaning down to take Louis’ lips in a soft kiss. He breaks apart shortly after, rolling onto his back because he’s feeling tired, his eyes droopy. Louis follows him sluggishly, his arse resting on Harry’s interested crotch, slowly grinding into him, steady and sure.

They’re kissing languidly, Harry licking into Louis’ mouth, feeling drunk on him, feeling sleepy and sated even as his dick spurts precome into his boxer briefs. When he comes, he shudders against Louis, breathing hard against his lips before dropping his head heavily back onto his pillow. Louis’ eyes still look blown, his lips swollen and red. His own dick tents his boxers, and Harry clumsily takes a hold of him, relishing in his hitched breath, in the stutter of his hips as he thrusts into Harry’s hand.

“ _Babe._ ” He breathes out, eyelashes fluttering. Harry feels his senses heighten – like as the closer Louis gets to orgasm, the closer Harry feels to him, the more alert he becomes. Everything is a little hazy, though – it sort of feels like he’s high, in a way – and when Louis cries out softly, his underwear going damp, Harry squeezes his eyes shut tight, almost unable to breathe.

He wakes to Louis kissing him, his palms cradling Harry’s cheeks.

“You okay?” asks Louis, smiling down at him, hair mussed and beautiful. He looks like he’s glowing. _I did that,_ Harry thinks absently. _Me._

“Wonderful.” Harry mumbles, feeling Louis slide off of him, settle against his side. He falls back to sleep quickly after that.

Louis seems calmer that morning, when Harry leaves his bedroom to find him sitting on the couch, cartoons on the telly. It’s a Saturday, and Harry remembers – they used to do this together.

He checks the clock on the wall – well, they would watch them together when they both woke early enough. As it is, it’s eleven; so Harry’s missed most of them, when usually it’s the opposite.

“Hey,” Louis greets him, eyes glued to the telly as Harry seats himself right next to him, gliding a hand onto Louis’ knee, letting it slide up his warm thigh and rest somewhere in the middle.

“Mornin’,” Harry mumbles, wiping at his eyes with his right hand, ignoring the way Louis has tensed beside him – not entirely unusual, these days. “What did I miss?”

Louis doesn’t reply, and Harry blinks away the bleary quality to his vision and turns his head, blowing away some curls from his mouth, licking his lips slowly. Louis is staring at him, a dent in his brow.

“Haz,” He stops, shifting so he’s more fully turned to Harry, whose hand slides until it’s on Louis’ bent knee, resting comfortably. “Look, I’m sorry about yesterday. I–” He looks down at Harry’s hand on his knee, frown deepening. “I should’ve said something, you’re right.”

“No, it’s alright,” Harry tells him, inching closer. Louis looks up, blinking furiously at how close they are suddenly. Harry feels similarly shaken, inhaling sharply when he realises the blue of Louis’ eyes is even brighter in the daylight. He feels special, being able to witness him like this – taken aback, but a nervous excitement lingering in his jittery hands. Harry brings his right up to cover Louis’, stopping the movement. “It’s _alright,_ Lou.”

Louis swallows, giving one of those smiles he gives to the others when he can’t quite admit he’s struggling. When he wants to hide.

“ _Lou,_ ” Harry breathes, focusing on the pink of Louis’ lips – he wants to, so badly. Just once, as the sun streaks across their living room. Just once, so Harry can know it’s real. Then they can go back to loving in the dark, sordid and secretive.

He’s so close – their lips almost brushing, Louis’ eyelashes looking obscenely long as his gaze drops to Harry’s mouth and _stares_ – when the front door bangs open.

They pull apart quickly, Louis roughly wiping at his mouth as they turn to face Liam, who looks like he has no idea what he just interrupted.

“Harry,” He pants out, bent over at the waist, having seemingly run to their flat. “Harry, I _saw him._ Just now!” He points behind him, eyes wild.

Harry gets up quickly, pushing all thoughts of Louis aside.

“Are you okay?” He asks once he reaches Liam, taking him by the shoulders. “Liam, did he talk to you?”

“No,” Liam breathes out, a bit calmer now, “No, he didn’t see me. I was on my way to yours – hey, Lou,” Louis smiles and waves, small and wry, “And saw him across the street.” Liam pulls Harry in for a hug, tight and desperate, voice muffled against Harry’s clothed chest. “I didn’t know what to do, I just ran.”

Harry spends the next hour making the three of them breakfast, Liam being vague enough that Louis doesn’t really know the significance of what’s happened, but that he can still be included. Harry tries to sneak glances at him but he’s gazing so intently at Liam that it becomes a futile effort.

“I’m off,” Louis announces once Liam starts talking about Sophia, startling the both of them. Harry turns to him, eyebrows raised, “Nialler needs a hand with something.”

Harry’s belly twists, ugly and resentful.

“I can help?” He offers, glancing at Liam, who seems to be glancing between the two of them.

“Nah,” Louis waves him off, putting his empty cup of tea in the sink, “It’s hard to explain. See you two idiots later, yeah?”

He must change out of his trackpants and into jeans in barely a minute, because he’s smiling at them in silence as he grabs his bag by the door about two minutes later, leaving quietly.

The flat is then eerily calm, and Harry realises that he’s been staring at the door for too long when he turns back to Liam’s scrutinising eye.

“It’s him,” realises Liam, face clearing in understanding, “isn’t it?”

“Leave it.” Harry replies tiredly, too used to ignoring his demons to confront them now, and with Liam no less.

“Harry.” Liam says, looking at him sternly, almost like a parent.

“ _Liam._ ” Harry mocks back, sighing when Liam seems a little hurt at the harsh tone. “Don’t worry about me, alright? I’m fine.”

“Let me talk to him,” insists Liam, ignoring the shake of Harry’s head, “I won’t give you away, I promise. But Louis should know better.” He pauses, frowning. “I’ll talk to him.”

He leaves shortly after, and Harry is left with a Saturday before him and not much to do.

He texts his Mum about Skype, but she doesn’t reply. Gemma is similarly absent, and so he resorts to texting Zayn, though Harry doesn’t know why he expects a reply from him, out of all of his friends. Seems about the only person he _can_ text, though. Liam’s off talking to Louis, after all, and Niall–

 _How’d it go with Ni?_ Harry’s written. Surprise rushes through him when his phone pings back ten minutes later, Harry sitting on his bed and feeling that exhaustion in his bones again, wondering if he can spare the time for a nap.

 _we’re good,_ Zayn’s texted back, _he explained everything_

Harry wants to just send back a few question marks, but that’s not Zayn’s style.

_Brilliant. Hope his excuse was good xx_

_yeah it was_

Harry frowns. Zayn knows Harry likes a bit more than that – but maybe he’s preoccupied. Maybe he’s got Niall with him, and doesn’t want to talk about him as if he’s a topic of discussion.

Sighing, Harry drops his mobile onto his bedside with a clatter. His bed still feels warm when he gets properly into it, t-shirt flung onto the floor – though it’s surely his imagination, considering it’s been over an hour since he and Louis were there. It makes it easy, however, to sink deep into his covers, content and falling into nothingness quicker than the flick of a light switch.

The bedside light is on when he starts awake, as if he had a dream he was falling from a great height and hit the ground – but he didn’t; and instead Louis is on top of him, hands wandering over Harry’s chest, the moon shining bright outside in the night.

“There we go,” Louis murmurs, and Harry struggles to wake through the fog of sleep, limbs heavy and oxygen struggling through his lungs. He tries to speak, but Louis brushes a hand down his cheek, an icy caress, though not in temperature. “Shh. Don’t waste your energy.”

He realises, as Louis drags his boxer briefs down his thighs, that he’s painfully, achingly hard. And Louis is naked.

He can’t help the way his eyes rove, can’t help staring at the masterpiece before him. Louis has always been beautiful, but in the soft glow of Harry’s room, with the clash of blue moonlight and yellow lamp light, he looks like a ninth wonder of the world. Harry’s desperate to explore his smooth skin with his hands, but he struggles to do much more than rest them on Louis’ hips, squeezing weakly.

“So eager,” Louis murmurs, smiling wide as he grasps at Harry’s cock, “It’s been lovely.”

He positions them, and Harry feels the coolness of lube on his hot dick. He’s sweating, actually - burning up, in a way - and whilst the lube makes him flinch, it’s strangely soothing. There’s no condom in sight, but Harry doesn’t care. Louis is with him, Louis is about to be around him, and Harry can do nothing but sit back and marvel at how he got here, at the love that throbs through his veins, sluggish and slow and self-assured.

Louis hisses as he sinks down, face tilted up toward the ceiling in rapture, jaw sharp from Harry’s position underneath him. Harry feels the temperature increase tenfold, feels the beads of sweat running down his neck, the hard clench of Louis around him leaving him breathless, damp chest heaving with it in the muggy room.

“Shh,” Louis utters, comforting Harry as he chokes on air, feeling caged in with the humidity, the only thing grounding him the feel of Louis on his thighs, “It’ll be over soon, I promise.”

Nothing is registering. Harry just feels Louis, sharp and hot, and his blood slows and slows, his heart pumping out a languid beat. His hands have fallen from Louis’ hips and simply rest by his side, numb and tingling.

Suddenly, through the haze of Louis, Harry’s door flings open. They both turn their heads at the noise, albeit at a glacial pace for Harry.

“What the _fuck?_ ” Louis exclaims.

“Lou?” Harry manages, a quiet mumble. Louis above him snaps his head back, eyes wide and wild. His body seems tense – unlike when he sunk down onto Harry, limber and seductive and– well, everything Louis isn’t.

 _Oh,_ Harry thinks.

“Oh?” Louis at the door screeches, and Harry realises he’s said that out loud, “You’re having sex with some demonic doppelganger of me and all you can say is _‘Oh’?!_ ” He looks around wildly, his body seeming blurry and not in focus, like Harry’s gazing at him through frosted glass, kind of. His eyes land on something, and then all of a sudden he’s got Harry’s coveted guitar in his possession, the neck looking large and ominous in his hands.

Harry has to be hallucinating at this point, because Louis at the door lifts the guitar in the air and smashes it into the ground, breaking it in two pretty easily.

 _So strong,_ Harry thinks as the Louis above him scrambles away, the heat gone but the haze still over him. His limbs feel like they’re not there, and Harry realises that although his dick is hard and demanding, every other part of him wants to sink into his mattress, lethargic and woozy. He thinks he might pass out.

“He’s dying,” Louis next to the bed hisses, and Harry turns his head, slow and measured through this weird trip – he has to be drugged up, right? That’s... that’s what this is. “He’ll be dead by morning.”

“Yeah?” Louis at the door says, and he’s stalking forward slowly, guitar neck in his hands and held over his shoulder, the jagged end looking dangerous, Louis ready to strike, “Funny that. A little bird by the name of Niall Horan told me that if I kill you, the spell breaks.” Louis by the bed takes a step back, naked and beautiful – but suddenly his face turns ugly, his features contorting as he hisses.

“What–”

“ _Shut up, Harry,_ ” Louis tells him, and his eyes flick over for barely a second. It seems to be enough to distract him, however, and Louis by the bed leaps over Harry, leaps right at Louis near the door with a grotesque roar.

At the sight of Louis in danger, Harry manages to fight through the fog to roll over, trying to plant his feet on his bedroom floor with little success.

Louis is grappling on the ground, fighting over the guitar neck with his other self. There’s a clamber near the door, and Harry looks over to see Niall skid to a stop, alarmed expression on his face. Liam comes stumbling after him, Zayn holding him up as he nearly falls over. He looks about, and his eyes lock on the two Louis’ just in time to see one of them shimmer, like some weird sort of illusion, until they’re a little taller, more muscular, with sandy brown hair and light eyes. He’s beautiful, this new person – even if he’s not as beautiful as Louis.

“ _You._ ” Liam states, and he sounds murderous. He looks angry – angrier than Harry’s ever seen him.

“Me.” The new man replies, snarling, and Louis uses that moment to knock him away, off of Louis, whose fingers are wrapped around the guitar neck in a white-knuckled grip.

“Now, Niall!” Zayn cries out, and Harry feels like he has to be hallucinating – he’s having some crazy dreams lately, for sure, because suddenly Niall has a crossbow in his hands, a wooden arrow notched inside. He points it at the man, who’s sprawled on the floor, and shoots before he can get away. The arrow hits him hard in the thigh, making him fall back against the wood heavily. He gasps, but there’s no blood, no evidence at all that he’s been hit by _a fucking arrow._

“Nice shot, Niall.” says Louis, but it sounds annoyed, like he’s not complimenting him at all.

“Early; I know, I know, don’t get on me about it,” Niall replies, rushed, adjusting his _crossbow,_ of all things, “Zayn said 'now', so I just fired.”

“Zayn,” Louis turns to him, throwing away the guitar neck and crossing his arms, “We had a plan.”

“Sorry, mate,” Zayn apologises, staring at Niall, eyes wide, “Got a bit excited.”

Harry can’t quite manage a thought, staring at what’s going on as sweat drips down his back, as his dick presses insistently into the bed, almost painful with how hard he is.

“Watch him.” Louis orders the others, getting up off the ground and making his way to Harry. He can’t stop his whimper when Louis’ hand rests on his forehead, pushing back his sweaty, tangled curls to see his face. He crouches by the bed, ignoring the push of Harry’s hips into his mattress. Harry tries to bury his face in his covers, but Louis scratches his scalp, trying to calm him. Harry shivers, unable to get rid of the feel of the other Louis on his skin; the one who made him do those things, who _did_ those things to him–

“Lou,” Harry croaks, bringing a hand up to circle Louis’ wrist, feel the bones there as he grips tightly, loosening only at the pained wince on Louis’ face, “ _Lou–_ ”

“Love,” he interrupts, smiling at Harry as he sweeps his hair off his face, “You’re alright. I’ve got you.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry sobs out, “I thought it was you, I swear– I would never– I love you so much, Lou, I’m sorry.” He can’t help the high-pitched sound he makes then, truly burying his tear-streaked face into his bed now.

“Release him.” Harry hears Louis demand coldly. He turns his head to see him staring at the man on the ground, who’s clutching at his thigh with a tight look on his face. “ _Now._ ”

The man laughs coldly, a strange sort of glee on his face. “Why should I?”

“Because we’ll kill you.” Liam spits out, and Harry’s eyes snap to him. His hands are clenched into fists by his sides and his shoulders are hard, his eyes fuming. He looks every bit the man who teaches boxing for a living.

“Kill me?” The man laughs again and Harry flinches, relaxing only when Louis grabs for his nearest hand, entwining their fingers. He still feels hot and shivery, still feels a little hazy – but things are getting a little clearer now, enough for him to focus on what’s happening. “A month or two ago, you kissed me back, Liam.”

“Shut up!” Liam hisses, starting forward – he’s only stopped by Niall, who puts an arm out in front of him, Liam’s chest bumping into it.

“Don’t,” Niall says, voice fairly light for the situation. His eyes are narrowed as he looks down at the man. “It’s a demon. It feeds off of chaos, regardless of its type.”

“And what type am I, Niall Horan?” The man says, smiling with teeth, looking more like a shark than anything else. “Did your mother teach you that, at least?”

“Didn’t know she was so infamous, good ol’ Maura,” Niall remarks, the corners of his lips turning down as if he’s intrigued by the prospect, eyebrows raised, “I’ll have to tell her – Mum’ll get a kick outta that, for sure.” 

“ _She murders us!_ ” The demon hisses, face turning fierce and terrifying as it shifts forward suddenly, “She’s killed my sisters, my brothers!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Niall interrupts, shrugging, “Save it for someone who cares. Can’t muster up much sympathy for ya, can I?” He points at Harry, “You went for Liam, and then Harry.”

“Liam was too loyal,” It spits out, glaring at said man, “Ran away after our first kiss. I cut my losses and tried something different, and _oh,_ ” He smiles, slow and menacing, his head turning to stare at Harry – who still, after all of this, lies on the bed an absolute mess, “He was _wonderful._ ”

“Shut the fuck up!” Louis exclaims abruptly, roughly letting go of Harry’s hand to stand in front of him, stance wide, as if to come between him and the… the creature. “You don’t touch him, you don’t even _look_ at him!” 

“I’ve done so much more than that, babe,” It purrs, and Harry can’t help the whimper at the pet name, remembering its hands on him – he sees it now, the influence it had; the way it imitated Louis, made him into someone who would want Harry back, tricked Harry into thinking he was real. But he wasn’t – the real Louis wouldn’t act that way, not even if he was in love with Harry. How could he have been so _stupid?_

The demon smiles thinly at Harry. ”Oh, yes, you remember.” Harry shudders, sees him turn his gaze back to Louis. “He was so in love with you he would do anything I asked. You don’t know the kind of devotion that takes – I slept with him as a woman first, but it gave me almost nothing. The best feed comes from an emotional connection, don’t you know?”

“I’m going to kill you.” Louis tells him, and Harry hears the calm in his voice and knows, with certainty, that he will.

“We’re done here,” Zayn announces, and he steps forward, crossbow and arrow in hand. He doesn’t look at the creature, just strides across the room to hand the weapon to his best friend. They hold gazes for a long moment, both hands on the crossbow, and Harry barely hears the “ _Don’t fucking miss._ ” before Louis’ gone from him, Zayn now crouched and holding his hand with a white-knuckled grip, murmuring assurances.

“Don’t look, Haz,” Zayn tells him quietly as the demon starts to back up, screeching inhumanly as Louis stalks toward it, his silhouette hard and vengeful. He squeezes Harry’s hand. “This is going to hurt.”

Before Harry can say anything – _Why will it hurt?_ Or _what the hell are you talking about?_ Or even _I need to see it die_ – Louis fires, a black arrow embedding itself into the creature’s chest as it screams, gasping, grasping at the wound.

Harry feels a piercing pain go through him, shooting through every nerve as the creature shimmers just like earlier, except this time into nothing. He screams, curling up on the bed, feeling Zayn’s hand in his, holding it so tight he knows he must be breaking fingers.  

It leaves as soon as it came, and he’s left panting on the bed, shivering with the aftershocks.

The haze, the fog, the dizziness – all of it has disappeared, and Harry’s emotions come bursting through the wall that had been put up by... well, by the demon, he thinks. By the Fake Louis.

Louis rushes over, grabbing the throw blanket at the end of Harry’s bed and covering him with it – he’d forgotten he was naked, arse bare for his friends to see; it seemed insignificant at the time, with a demon wanting to kill him.

“Love,” Louis murmurs, brushing Harry’s hair from his face as Zayn moves back, giving them space, “Harry, say something.”

“Water,” He croaks, coughing, “Please, some water.”

“You heard the man, Liam!” Louis says, head swinging back to look at his friend, “Grab a glass, will you? Christ.”

Harry laughs, trying not to cry. Louis smiles with eyes a little wet.

“You’ll be alright, Haz,” he says, wiping away Harry’s tears, “Trust me.”

 

***

 

“So it was… an incubus?” Harry asks a short while later, wrapped in a blanket and sipping on some water. Louis is close by his side, their hands entwined on the sofa. Niall sits on the coffee table across from them, elbows on his knees; Liam sits on the armchair, Zayn perched on its armrest.

“Yeah,” Niall answers, scrunching up his face, “I know it’s a lot to take in, mate; s’why we didn’t tell you.”

“But you told the others?” Harry clarifies, frowning as another shiver takes over him.

“Well, I tell Zayn everything,” Niall explains, and Harry sees Zayn hide a small smile in his shoulder, Liam rolling his eyes, “And Louis thought you were actin’... weird, like.”

“You were being all touchy, Haz,” Louis tells him at Harry’s questioning look, “We… we’re not like that.”

“We aren’t?” Harry frowns again, looking down at their joined hands. 

“There’s a bit of confusion, after,” Liam says, and Harry looks to him, to his bushy eyebrows, raised in a sceptical fashion on his face, “Quite common, I’ve found.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Liam,” Niall says, craning his head to look at his friend, “I told you when you came to us - it’s magic, yeah? Literally demonic magic. You can’t fight that.”

“So… your friend with more? It was… him?” Harry asks Liam slowly, brain gradually putting the pieces of the puzzle together.

“Yeah,” Liam sounds frustrated, sad. He looks it when Harry slides his gaze to him. “Yeah, it was him.”

They all leave for their respective flats an hour or two later, Harry’s head spinning with all this new information, his body aching but not tired – not anymore. Harry’s slept enough for the next month, he feels like. He doesn’t want to close his eyes; he wants to stay awake, listening to the way Louis talks, taking in the way he looks. The _real_ Louis.

“I’m sorry, Curly,” Louis apologises, tugging at a wayward curl of Harry’s, the two of them slouched on the sofa together, their flat now warm and quiet, “If I’d just _told_ you–”

“And if _I’d_ just told _you,_ ” Harry huffs, “then none of this would’ve happened. So we’re both to blame.”

“Haz–”

“ _No,_ Louis,” Harry says firmly, squeezing his hand, catching his eyes and keeping them on him, feeling frustrated and full to the brim with love – true, organic love. No haze, no fog. It’s the most focused, the clearest everything’s been in a while. Harry’s relishing in it. “I don’t want to talk about what should’ve happened, what we should’ve said in the light of day. I love you,” He closes his eyes, breathing through his nose to stop the sting of tears, “I love you so much, and I don’t want to lose you because of it. So I’m sorry if that’s, like, _inconvenient._ ”

He can’t hear anything but his own breathing, and then Louis’ fingertips brush his jaw, the touch encouraging him to open his eyes. Louis – his angular cheekbones, the slight scruff on his face, his soft hair, the bluest eyes Harry’s ever gazed into – stares back at him, and he’s smiling.

“You’re a complete fuckwit if you don’t think I’m in love with you too.” He grins, thumb brushing under Harry’s left eye. “You’re stuck with me, Harold Edwina Styles.”

“That’s not my name.” Harry says weakly, chuckling, but Louis presses forward anyway, their lips colliding. Harry feels the touch race through him, embed itself into his very bone marrow, his DNA. He feels the softness of Louis’ chapped lips, the scrape of his stubble; he feels the tenderness of his palm on his cheek, the softness of the hair at his nape under Harry’s fingers. He feels everything, and he feels alive.

“Is this real?” breathes Harry once they pull apart, lips tingling in the best kind of way – electrifying, his nerve ends firing, adrenalin pumping through his veins.

“Yeah, love.” Louis answers, laughing into Harry’s mouth, their teeth clacking. He’s the most beautiful he’s ever been in that moment, in his trackpants and speckled socks, vest exposing his chest tattoo. He’s the most beautiful then, and Harry loves him. “It’s real.”

**Author's Note:**

> MILDLY DUBIOUS CONSENT TAG: Harry has sex with an incubus thinking it's Louis. So there's a case of mistaken identity there, and dubious consent given he would not have sex with this person more than once if they weren't masquerading as Louis.
> 
> I really hope you guys liked this! It's my first Larry - though I plan to write a lot more. Please leave kudos and comment if you enjoyed this!! :)
> 
> Also, I'm over on tumblr at [domesticharry](http://domesticharry.tumblr.com).


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